A House Christmas Carol
by Gertrude2034
Summary: Not an original idea, I know. But here's my take on how House's past, present and future might appear, and the three very special ghosts from House's history that help him to discover the important link that connects them all.
1. Stave I: Marley's Ghost

**A/N:** Hi all, this is a little Christmas present to all my loyal and lovely readers out there. I know this is not an original idea by any means (House was, after all, born to play Scrooge) but this is my take on it. My thanks to Charles Dickens for inspiration and apologies for plagiarising his fabulous work just slightly.

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**A House Christmas Carol  
**

**Stave I: Marley's ghost**

"Did you hear about poor old Marley?" Wilson asked.

"What? Kicked the bucket? Dropped off the perch? Paid St Peter a personal visit?"

"House," Wilson said in his usual disapproving tone. "Show some respect. He was a figurehead at the hospital for a long time."

"Yeah, a _very_ long time," House agreed. "He was around when they invented penicillin. Cuddy should have fired the doddery old codger years ago. Hobbling around yelling at people, stitching them up with those shaky hands of his." House's eyes lit up with fake glee. "You know, I just had a thought: maybe I've got a chance at 'Curmudgeon of the Year' now that he's gone!"

Wilson shook his head, but couldn't deny the truth of House's words. Marley had never been particular pleasant. In fact, Wilson thought if you looked up "grumpy old bastard" in the dictionary, there might well have been a photo of Marley next to the entry. But that didn't stop him feeling a need to defend the guy. "It wasn't like he was _practicing_ House. He hadn't seen a patient in years."

"Precisely my point. Why keep him hanging around? Why didn't he go play bowls or move to Florida, or sit on a street corner and call out lewd things to teenage girls?"

"I actually don't think he had much else in his life," Wilson said a little sadly. "The hospital was everything to him." He bit his tongue to prevent himself from making the very clear parallels between Marley's life and House's own, knowing that it would make not a lick of difference and would only result in him, once again, ending a futile conversation with House feeling stressed and exhausted. He decided to change the subject.

"So, coming out for drinks tonight? There's a few people meeting up at McCafferty's tavern: Cuddy, Chase and Cameron, Kutner–"

"Nope," House interrupted, his answer definitive.

"But House! It's Christmas Eve! We always . . . well, when I'm not married, we usually . . . " Wilson hoped his face didn't completely betray his disappointment, but he'd been planning on spending the evening with House. "I thought we could go get Chinese food afterwards."

"Bah humbug," House said, but his voice lacked its usual vitriol. "Not tonight. I think I caught a flu from one of the clinic patients I saw yesterday. I feel all stuffy and fevery. I'm gonna go home, watch some TV and go to bed."

"Are you just trying to get out of going to Cuddy's Christmas lunch tomorrow?" Wilson asked, suspicious. "She's been working on it for days."

"I told her I probably wouldn't come. Now I'm sick. I _can't_ go," House said with a pathetic whine.

"You look fine to me."

"Well I'm not _fine_. And don't worry about coming by to check on me. We both know how well that worked out the last time you bothered." House turned on his heel and strode off.

Wilson couldn't help but feel ashamed of House's reference to the Christmas Eve Wilson had left him lying in a pool of his own vomit. It was something neither of them ever normally brought up, and Wilson took it as House's particular brand of warning that he really _didn't_ want any visitors this Christmas.

Wilson shrugged off his disappointment . There was only so much he could do. He wandered off, deciding to call it a day and join his colleagues at the bar.

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House was lying on his sofa, his regular lounging spot, watching TV. The beginnings of the flu that he'd truthfully claimed to Wilson earlier that afternoon had hit him with a vengeance. He had a headache, scratchy eyes, a sore throat and could feel the weird hot-and-cold sweats shivering through his body signalling fever.

_Great, just in time for Christmas._

Not that the fact that it was a holiday really made a difference. It wasn't like House had anything to do. There was no family to be disappointed by his illness ruining a get-together, no kids to disappoint by being too sick to play Santa. No partner to bring him medicinal eggnog and cuddle up with him to watch _It's a Wonderful Life_, which was a shame really, because the flu would have given him the perfect excuse if a few stray tears had squeezed out when the angels got their wings.

In the trance-like state provoked by the virus in his body, House found himself staring blankly at the television. Then suddenly, he was brought to awareness as a green frog in Victorian-style dress marched across the screen singing.

_Was he tripping? Hallucinating? _

No, the answer was far more banal. While he'd zoned out, _A Muppet Christmas Carol_ had come on. The desperate cheerfulness of the froggy version of Tiny Tim was too much for House to bear, but he couldn't find the energy to reach for the remote and change the channel, let alone move from the sofa.

He sleepily watched on, half dozing, waking up every time the puppet creatures found a need to express themselves in song – which was far more often than House would have liked.

The movie had reached the scene where hardworking Kermit was visited by his now-deceased old boss when House figured Wilson must have slipped a tab of acid into his final coffee of the day. Suddenly the screen went darker. The cheery, tinny songs extinguished. A silence, heavier than just the absence of the television jangling seemed to settle over the apartment and House felt a chill shudder through him, goose bumps prickling the back of his neck. Then the old ghost, a heavy chain wrapped round his waist, turned away from the frog and stared, monstrously, from the screen, directly into House's eyes.

"Shit!" House jumped in his own skin, instantly recognising the face on screen. _Marley? Dr Marley?_ _The _recently deceased_ Dr Marley? _

After a moment's fright House relaxed. He chuckled. It was clear. He was obviously hallucinating. He should probably be concerned that he had flu-like symptoms and that there was something seriously wrong with his brain, but for the moment the hallucination seemed more interesting than the diagnosis.

"Dr Marley? Nice chain," House said.

"I wear the chain I forged in life," Marley said, his voice booming and ominous, "I made it—"

"—link by link, yard by yard. Yeah, yeah, I know. I read the book."

"Greg House, hear me! My time is nearly gone!" the ghost's voice boomed.

"Let me guess. Tonight I am going to be haunted by three spirits."

"You do not take this seriously enough young man!"

House raised his eyebrows. He was not a "young man". Although in comparison to Marley? Perhaps he classified.

"No space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused!" The ghost continued ominously. His chain rattled in the background, a phantom echo of gravitas.

House chose to ignore it. "Marley, you were from Minnesota. Why are you talking like working-class Englishman?"

Marley appeared to ignore the slight. "I am here tonight to warn you that you have yet a chance of escaping my fate."

"What fate? Of a distinguished medical career? Of having a heart attack in the middle of a board meeting while making decisions that affect the healthcare of thousands of people? Your _fate_ doesn't sound so horrible."

"My fate was to live alone, to walk through crowds of fellow human beings with eyes cast down. I healed, but only bodies, ne'er souls. The links of my chain are the failures of my mortal soul to connect with another. Over and over, the links, oh!" The ghost gave a pitiful wail. "The chain is so heavy, House." The whispered complaint, the agony in the voice, the use of his name, all brought the goose bumps back to House's skin. He shivered.

"I've had enough of this," House said, battling to retain his rational, scientific objectivity. Ghosts did not exist. There was no afterlife. House had seen enough people die – hell, he'd been dead a few times himself – to know this for a fact. "Piss off back to the Muppets. Tell Miss Piggy I've always had a thing for her and if she dumps the frog we can make some bacon." House laughed, amused by his own joke.

Marley's ghost slowly shook his head, frowning. House felt chastised, as if he was a child again, and his father was the one shaking his head in disappointment.

The ghost took a long, rattling breath before speaking again. "As you predicted, tonight you will be visited by three ghosts. They will appear on the strike of each hour of the next morning." The ghost seemed to peer even further out of the television and House was struck by an irrational urge to reach out and touch the apparition, as if he was in a 3D movie. "I urge you, on pain of an agonizing eternity in anguish to reconsider yourself, think again about your antipathy to the human beings around you."

The ghost stared blankly out at him until House yawned, without really knowing why, and it broke the spell. When he opened his eyes again the dead Dr Marley was gone, and Kermit and Fozzie Bear were cavorting across the screen. House reached for the remote and clicked off the bright, noisy movie. It was too much for his eyes and ears to manage.

He stumbled his way into the bedroom, telling himself that if his symptoms got any worse he'd break down and call Wilson. Hallucinating was a pretty severe symptom, especially given he hadn't had any medication that would explain it. He fell into bed and was asleep almost immediately.


	2. Stave II: The first of the three spirits

**Stave II: The first of the three spirits**

House was woken from deep slumber, startled from sleep by an odd noise that he didn't recognise and now could no longer hear. He checked the clock and found it was 12.59am, only a few hours since he'd gone to bed. He'd slept so deeply it felt as if it should be much later. The image of Dr Marley's ghostly visage swam up from somewhere in his memory, but House couldn't be sure what exactly he recalled. He reached a hand up to his own forehead and could tell he was feverish. He sniffed and the dull ache in his sinuses told him he was definitely in for a full dose of the flu.

He turned over in bed, facing the door, and was about to try to settle back to sleep when he was overcome by the smell of lavender. Lavender, baby power and butter, mixed with the slightly sour, musty smell that House associated with elderly people.

A girlish but thin and reedy voice seemed to come from the corner of the room.

"_The healer with his magic powers, I could rub his gentle brow for hours. His manly chest, his stubbled jaw, Everything about him leaves me raw—with joy. Oh House, your very name, Will never leave this girl the same._" The recitation ended with a giggle.

House cringed, just as he had cringed the first time he'd heard those words read aloud. Of course he now knew the words by heart. Not that he'd ever admit it, but he kept the piece of flowery notepaper the verse had been scribed on in flowing script in the second drawer of his desk, hidden inside a _New Kids on the Block_ CD case, safe in the knowledge that no one would ever open it.

"Georgia," House said wearily, "I told you stalking me wouldn't work." He sat up, groaning with the effort, the ache in his thigh mirroring the ache in his head. This was the last thing he felt like dealing with. Sure enough, sitting in the chair in the corner of the room near the door was the little apple-cheeked poet whom he'd cured of syphilis a few years ago. "Where's your son?"

Georgia giggled again and gave him a flirty look over the top of her wire-rimmed spectacles. "Off spending his inheritance."

"Isn't he a little premature—" House broke off as a sinking feeling began deep in the pit of his stomach. "Are you dead?"

Georgia gave him a beatific smile. "Yes dear, I'm dead."

"How? I mean . . . when . . . " House began stuttering, unable to pull his brain together to cope with the multiple system errors it seemed to be experiencing.

"It was a stroke, right in the middle of a game of Canasta. Sure, I'd prefer if it had been in the middle of something a little more spicy," she gave him a cheeky wink, "but we can't chose these things."

"Were you winning?" House asked faintly, still wondering if he should dial 911 for what was obviously a serious brain injury or infection affecting his perception.

"The Canasta game? Oh, yes, yes, I think I was. Pity. Still. It was a good way to go, very sudden and very quick."

"Right." House was uncharacteristically lost for words. He had no idea how to comment on a dead person's reflection of their own death.

"Come on dear, we need to get a move on."

"Let me guess—"

"I am the ghost of Christmas past," Georgia said pleasantly.

"Long past?"

"No, your past, my darling."

House shuddered; he did not want to be Georgia's – or any other dead person's – darling.

"Come on, up you pop. Walk with me." Georgia held out a hand and somehow, without the usual agonies and groaning that accompanied his usual rising from bed, House found himself out of bed, following Georgia through the bedroom across to the window.

"Georgia, I don't know what you have planned, but I can't walk more than a few blocks, let alone—"

"Let me," Georgia interrupted. "A touch _there_, and . . . "

Georgia pressed her hand against his chest, over his heart, and suddenly House found himself rising from the ground, floating through the walls. He reached out and grabbed a handful of Georgia's beaded pink cardigan in surprise, but all she did was turn and give him another of those suggestive winks.

They were surrounded by fog which suddenly vanished, revealing a cold, clear, wintery day, with snow upon the ground.

House gasped. "Michigan."

Following Georgia's lead in some form of transportation that defied explanation, House found himself zooming over the grounds of the university, homing in on one particular building, then he was in the corridors, then in a room. Georgia seemed to touch the ground like a particularly talented sky-diver, stepping onto the carpeted floor lightly, balanced and lithe in the way no seventy-something-year-old had the right to be.

In contrast, House staggered, hitting a boldly patterned armchair before coming to a final halt. In an instant he recalled where he was: his dorm room, the posters of Led Zeppelin and Oscar Wilde and multiple stacks of teetering books immediately familiar. He looked across and sitting on the sofa in the middle of the room was himself – a version he barely remembered, twenty-five years younger, almost clean shaven, full head of curly hair, two fully functional legs. He was laughing, drinking a beer, books open on his lap. Next to him was a woman with long, curly dark hair, also laughing, laughing so hard she had snorted beer through her nose, which was what had provoked a further laughing fit in the both of them.

House couldn't help but smile – somehow, through the magic of whatever fucked-up thing was happening to him, he had an immediate and visceral recollection of what that moment had been like. The future still shining in front of him, the knowledge he was gaining at that moment in his life rushing through his brain, the woman next to him and the smell of her patchouli-scented perfume.

He watched as the two people on the sofa laughed, pulled precious textbooks out of the way of their spilling beers, and comfortably touched one another. Suddenly he realised what was about to happen next, and it was something he didn't want Georgia to see.

"Georgia?"

"Yes?"

"I think we should leave."

"And why's that dear?"

"Because I know what's going to happen next."

"Oh, so do I dear." House didn't miss the suggestive tone in her voice. It made him feel slightly nauseous.

"So, then you'll understand why it's a good time for us to leave."

"Oh, no. This is one of my favourite places to visit. It's so . . . " Georgia sighed, like Scarlett O'Hara sighing over Rhett Butler, "romantic."

"No," House said on an exhaled breath, watching as his younger self leaned in, surprising the giggling woman next to him with a kiss. He remembered the kiss, how it had felt, the warmth and softness of her mouth, the feel of her hand as it crept around the back of his neck, the silkiness of her skin as his hand rose to her arm, running along her bicep.

He watched as the couple on the sofa kissed, touching one another with the familiarity of well-known friends and yet the tentativeness of new-blown lovers. Each stroke provoked new sensations, each kiss brought never-before felt feelings. The curly-haired woman on the sofa groaned and House did too – knowing what would inevitably happen next, how good it would make the younger version of himself feel, and what this single act would mean for the rest of his life.

"Georgia?"

"Yes Dr House?"

"Why did you bring me here?"

"Because it's the single most romantic moment of your life. The one time you let your heart rule your head."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What does that mean? Romantic? What the hell is that about? Why is that important? If what Marley said is true, if the point of all this is to show me how I need to connect with other people, why didn't you show me the first person whose life I saved? I still remember that – Amanda Clarke and her unborn daughter. I diagnosed her with preeclampsia when no one else picked it, saving both her life and her child's – neither of them would be alive if it wasn't for me. Surely that's proof of a connection with humanity?"

Georgia gave him a sad smile and shook her head. "No dear, that's not it."

"Greg," the woman on the sofa sighed his name against his younger-self's mouth before pulling back from him. "Is this a good idea?" Her voice was tentative, hopeful, cautious and yearning all at once. "You're my tutor, isn't there a law against it or something?"

His younger self laughed, and House was sick with jealousy over the light-heartedness in the chuckle.

"There's no law, Lisa. Besides, breasts like yours are illegal, so you're already in trouble."

Lisa Cuddy giggled, girlish and flirty, but still so much like her hospital administrator self, House was amazed. _He_ had clearly aged: now his hair was thinner, face lined, his whole persona somehow tainted by being alive for almost half a century. But Lisa Cuddy? Apart from a few lines around her eyes and mouth, her hair being a little shorter and her clothing more sensible than the hippy-ish peasant skirt and blouse she currently had on, well, it could easily be the woman he knew as his boss sitting on the sofa in his dorm room, right there in front of his eyes.

"Georgia," House protested loudly, turning to face the old lady, hands on hips, putting on his most intimidating voice. "I know what happens. I was here, _obviously_. Let's just get on with it. Take me to whatever it is I'm supposed to go next."

Georgia just smiled.

"Greg."

The sound of his name, whispered by Lisa Cuddy through barely parted lips, made him spin around again and face the couch. He watched as his other self reached out a hand and brushed a tendril of hair away from her face.

"Lisa," he said, and House cringed at seeing the raw emotion on his own face. But it wasn't for long, the two lovers leant in and kissed softly again. The kiss deepened, their tongues duelling, and Lisa fell back onto the arm of the sofa, young House following to lean over her. Her legs tangled with his, and House raised himself, leaning against the back of the sofa, freeing one hand to caress her breast.

"Georgia," House groaned, turning to the older woman with a pleading look. "Can we not watch this?"

"What happens next?" Georgia asked.

"I think it's pretty bloody obvious what happens next," House said sarcastically.

"What happens next?" she repeated.

House sighed, frustrated, and turned back to the couple on the sofa.

They moved against one another, both groaning, and then almost fell off the couch. The mishap had them both laughing again.

"Should we go into the bedroom?" young-House asked young-Cuddy, his eyebrows arched, a silly, seductive look on his face.

"Sure."

House climbed up from the sofa and then reached down and gathered Cuddy up in his arms. She squealed, and yelled out for him to put her down, but wrapped her arms tightly around his neck in spite of her protests. The older House groaned, half with embarrassment, and half with jealousy at the fact that there was no longer any way he could scoop a woman up in his arms and carry her to his bed. The young couple disappeared into a room off to one side, and House was blissfully relieved to hear the click of the door closing behind them.

He sat down heavily on the sofa, the cushions still warm from the passion of the two bodies that had just been lying on it. Georgia perched next to him, laying one hand gently on his arm.

"What happens next?" she asked softly.

"Lisa and I make love," House said, realising that she wasn't going to stop asking until he answered.

"And then?"

House frowned. "And then? What do you mean?"

"I mean what happens after that, sweetheart?"

House sighed. "We go to sleep."

"Yes." Georgia waved a hand and House was disconcerted to watch the hands of a clock on the wall spin sickeningly. The stars and clouds visible from the window flew by and, within just a few seconds, light was blooming on the horizon; a new, and yet long-past, dawn.

As the light was growing steadily stronger, the bedroom door opened and Lisa Cuddy stepped out quietly. Her hair was mussed and her mouth still looked red and swollen from all the kissing and the burn from the stubble that House had been playing with, but hadn't yet perfected back then. She collected up her belongings from around the tiny living room, paying no attention to the older House and ghost-Georgia sitting on the sofa. She shoved everything into a ragged, frayed backpack and was heading to the door before she bit her lip in indecision. After a moment's thought she turned around, put her backpack on the ground and pulled out a notebook. She quickly scribbled a note in it, tore out the piece of paper, and left it on the coffee table.

"What does it say?" Georgia asked innocently as the door closed quietly behind Cuddy.

"Like you don't already know."

Georgia giggled. "Read it to me anyway."

House picked up the torn piece of paper and noted that Cuddy's loopy scrawl hadn't changed since college.

_Greg – I have a mid-term paper due tomorrow, but maybe we can see each other again on Friday? Call me today – I'll need a break from study. L x_

House couldn't bring himself to read it aloud. Instead, he handed it to Georgia. He remembered what it had been like reading it the first time, the initial rush of excitement, the thrill of requited passion, the endless possibilities. Then, the inevitable battle of logic. Of why a relationship at that point in his life would have been such a bad idea.

"So what happened when you called her?" Georgia asked, placing the note back down in the exact position Cuddy had left it.

House could feel the flush rising in his cheeks, the blush doing more to make his guilt evident than any confession.

"Oh no," Georgia looked crestfallen. "You didn't."

"I didn't." House confirmed, although he was sure Georgia already knew that.

"But you stayed friends?"

"Sort of. I was an intern. I got called in for a long shift. I didn't get back home until Friday. Then I slept for twelve hours. She called me – wanted to know if I would still be her tutor. She was so proud, didn't say anything about what had happened. So . . . so, I didn't say anything either."

Georgia shook her head at him, like a disappointed grandmother. "I want to show you something," she said quietly.

House felt a little sick. He half expected her next comment to be something clichéd like, "this is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you". Yeah, his dad used to say that, and House knew for a fact it was a lie. "I don't think I want to see it."

"One more shadow you need to see," Georgia said, her voice firm.

"No."

Georgia, much stronger than House could have ever expected, pulled him to his feet and held his arms tightly.

"You fear the world too much." Georgia's voice became harsh. "All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach."

House rolled his eyes, covering his anxiety about what might happen next. "I'm sure the literate folks of Dickensian London know exactly what that means. As for me, I have no idea."

Georgia smiled, but it wasn't kindly. "You know exactly what it means."

House wondered if he was fainting, the room darkened, the gloom growing inwards from the periphery of his vision. But he was conscious, could feel wind whipping past his face, could feel Georgia's arms tightening restrictively around him.

Slowly the darkness cleared and House was in Cuddy's dorm room. At least he figured it was hers, he'd never been there, but it looked like it belonged to her – some of the clothes lying around looked familiar, books and other items seemed like they'd be the sort of things she'd own. It was feminine, but not girly.

His suspicions were confirmed a moment later when Cuddy came storming in, followed by another girl.

"I'm not going out, Fiona," Cuddy said warningly to the other girl. "I'm wrecked. I stayed up all night doing that stupid mid-term paper."

"All night?" Fiona said, curious. It became clear that Fiona must have been Cuddy's roommate, as both women comfortably moved about the small space. "The paper on nephrology? It wasn't that hard. I was sure you would have aced it. Especially with that tutor of yours." Fiona giggled and Cuddy gave her a withering look.

"Okay, okay." Fiona held up her hands in defence. She picked up her purse. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where we are."

Cuddy gave her a grim smile. "Have a good time."

Fiona closed the door with a bang and Cuddy sagged, as if she'd been holding herself together by the barest thread. She flopped onto the sofa, her breath leaving her in one long sigh. The next breath she drew in was shaky and her eyes welled with tears. One blink, and two fat droplets slid down her face.

"Oh, Georgia, don't make me . . . " House pleaded. He hated watching women cry. Especially when he was the reason for the tears. But Georgia still had her hands on his arms, and her steely grip prevented him from moving away. Instead, he did the only other thing left to him: he closed his eyes.

He heard as Cuddy took a few shaky breaths, then a rustle that he figured was her hand rising to wipe her face. She didn't break down into sobs, didn't throw herself face down into the cushions. Instead, she simply sat there, crying quietly, and for some reason it was more heartbreaking than the most wretched hysterics.

House heard her take in a deep breath and rise from the sofa, then the unmistakable sound of tissues being pulled from a box. House dared to open his eyes again, and watched as she visibly pulled herself together. She walked over to a mirror set on the wall near the door and looked at her reflection sternly.

"That is absolutely the last time you will ever cry over him," she told herself.

Despite the churn of his feelings, House snorted. "Oh Cuddy, I don't know about that," he said, not sure if he was proud, ashamed, or deeply saddened by the fact.

Cuddy spun around, startled, as if she'd heard him. Her eyes searched what she saw to be an empty room, before sighing again. She made herself a cup of coffee, then pulled a couple of text books down from the shelf, making herself comfortable on the sofa again before bending her head to further study.

"What?" House asked Georgia. "What just happened? Could she see us?"

Georgia released her grip on his arms and let House turn to face her. Her expression had returned to the kindly, grandmotherly set that House remembered.

"Nothing happened. She simply felt a shiver. You've felt it before. It's that prickle that you get sometimes when you step into a darkened room, or a flicker you see from the corner of your eye, or a chill you get for absolutely no reason. It's a moment in your life that's important, although you don't know it at the time."

"So this moment is important in her life?"

"Yes. She's made a decision. It's a little decision for now – she's going to pretend your night together didn't happen. She's going to stop your tutoring sessions. She's going to concentrate on her study, give up searching for a relationship for now and put all her energy into becoming the best doctor she can be."

"So? That's the same decision I made."

"I know, dear." Georgia smiled sadly at him and House suddenly felt as if there was some big secret he was missing, some vital piece of the puzzle that had yet to fall into place. He was annoyed and frustrated by Georgia's vague responses.

"Tell me what's going on, or get me out of here."

Georgia put a hand on his arm.

"Leave me alone!" House pulled his arm away. Then he and Georgia were tussling, fighting, although her former strength had deserted her, and House felt as if he were sparring with a mist, a glowing mist that grew brighter and brighter as House tried to get himself away from it, the light obscuring the features of the room, blinding him.

Suddenly, the fight left him. He was conscious of feeling exhausted; overcome by an incredible drowsiness, and then realised that somehow he was back in his own bedroom. He barely had the capacity to think, and all he could manage was to fall back into his bed before he sank into a heavy sleep.


	3. Stave III: The second of the three spiri

**A/N:** Sorry, I so rarely write canon, I forgot to include a warning in my summary that this story includes spoilers up to and including "Joy to the World".

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**Stave III: The second of the three spirits **

House woke up, lying in bed, wondering if everything he'd just experienced was a dream, hallucination or nightmare. He looked at the clock: 1.58am. Damn. His time with Georgia had felt like hours, it must have been a dream. But then, why did it follow on from what he'd experienced in the living room – Marley appearing on his television set?

Perhaps it was just all part of this weird flu he seemed to have. He groaned as he reached up, grabbing the glass of water he was thankful he'd put on the nightstand. His throat was dry and his eyes scratchy – all he wanted was to sleep for hours and hours . . .

"No rest for the wicked, House, you should know that."

This time, in comparison to Georgia's gentle intrusion, House was astonishingly and instinctively frightened. The glass slipped from his grasp and landed with a loud crack on the floor. He knew that voice and he knew for a fact that she was dead. Irretrievably and irrevocably dead. With a compulsion that he barely understood, he looked over to the door where the voice had come from.

"Amber," he said, not missing the tremor in his own voice.

"Hello, House."

"You're dead."

"Yes."

"You didn't get off the bus."

"No."

"And now what? You're a ghost?"

"What do you think I am?" Amber walked further into the bedroom, moonlight from between the slats of the blinds illuminating her pale face.

"You're the fucking ghost of Christmas present," House muttered.

"Look upon me," Amber replied, her tone sarcastic.

"I said I'd read the book, not memorised it," House replied, his tone just as acidic.

"You have never seen the like of me before," Amber said casually, but her voice had the ethereal quality House remembered from the time – the hallucination? – on the bus.

"Really?" he asked.

She sat down on the edge of his bed and gave him a frank stare. "Well, not really, no. We've actually talked quite a bit, haven't we?"

"The bus?"

"Yes the bus. And those other times. The dreams. The nightmares. The ones you'll never tell Wilson about."

House swallowed hard.

"Touch my robes."

"What?"

Amber's gentle, ethereal tone vanished replaced by the harsh, bitchy voice House was far more used to. "I said grab a handful of my frock, diagnostic boy, or this is going to be one very short ride."

Amber was wearing quite a fetching mini-dress, but House figured this probably wasn't the time to be commenting on how it set off her legs. Instead, he grabbed a handful of the meagre skirt in one hand and gave her a nervous smile – for lack of any other appropriate response.

"Hang on."

After the foggy flight into the past with Georgia, House was vaguely prepared for the bizarre sensation of weightlessness, but while Georgia had been a calm and careful driver, Amber was a speed demon. If it had been a normal day, and he wasn't accompanied by his best friend's dead lover, House might have actually enjoyed flying unassisted at breakneck speeds through the streets of Princeton. As it was, all it did was make his stomach clench and his eyes water.

With a sense of inevitability, House realised they were headed for Cuddy's house. They swept down her street, along her driveway and then, sickeningly, through the walls and into her kitchen.

Cuddy was wearing a white baby doll cotton nightie and fluffy slippers that made House smile despite his stomach's violent churning from Amber's reckless flying. Dean Martin was crooning _Baby It's Cold Outside_ and Cuddy sang along quietly as she pulled cling wrap over a large bowl and put it carefully in the fridge. House had been about to wonder aloud why she was up, cooking, in the middle of the night, but then remembered her planned Christmas lunch. Cuddy was preparing food for the people in her life that counted as family. And he was invited. He hadn't actually told her whether or not he'd be coming – in fact he'd told her he probably would be too hung over to be bothered. He'd seen the flicker of hurt in her eyes before she'd covered instinctively, some barb about the condition of his liver.

"Why are we here?" House demanded, his natural defence mechanism – being overbearing and arrogant – finally clicking into place.

Amber rolled her eyes. "And I thought you were smart."

House sighed and leaned against the kitchen wall as Cuddy continued to potter around. She pulled out a boldly patterned circular tin from a cupboard, opened it and lifted out a large, old-fashioned fruit cake. He remembered that he'd told her once that he liked fruit cake. His mother used to make it; a recipe she'd picked up from an English woman she'd befriended at one of their many homes during his childhood. Cuddy pulled out a bottle of brandy and opened it, filled the cap with the warm liquid and then carefully sprinkled it over the cake.

House couldn't help himself, he stepped forward, standing close to Cuddy, and took in a deep breath. His nostrils were filled with the smell of brown sugar, raisins, brandy, and Cuddy's perfume. He could have sworn there was a shadow of the patchouli he remembered from the dorm, and the smell of the cake reminded him of his mother and the occasional happy Christmas they'd had – generally the ones when his father had been away. Fuck the ghost of Christmas past, the smell evoked not just the memories but the _feelings_ of the past. The simple childhood joy of finding a long-wished-for toy under the tree. The indulgent smile of an adult at a child's laughter. The soft kiss from someone you love.

Cuddy was still humming along to her Christmas CD, Dean Martin having moved on to _Silver Bells_. She returned the cake to its container – House a little sad that he couldn't somehow steal _just a little piece_ – and washed up a couple of items in the sink. Finally she took one last look around the kitchen, then turned off the CD and headed towards the bedroom, turning off lights as she went.

House and Amber were left standing in the darkened kitchen, House unsure whether or not to follow.

"So?" he asked, covering his uncertainty with bluster. He had forgotten that Amber was there, and wondered what she had thought of his moment with the cake.

"So?" Amber echoed, crossing her arms in a mirror of his posture.

"So why are we here? Aren't you supposed to show me some poor family with a gimpy child and no money, and yet demonstrate how happy they are?"

"Would that prove anything to you?" Amber asked.

"No," House admitted.

"So why_ are_ we here?"

"I don't know!" House was getting frustrated. "You're the ghost! You're supposed to be in charge here!"

"Go to her bedroom," Amber said, still calm in the face of House's outburst.

House rolled his eyes. "Great," he muttered, but obeyed. He walked down the corridor, into the room he'd only been in once before – and that had been without Cuddy's permission. He guessed that this also counted as being without her permission, but then given this was a hallucination, it probably didn't matter anyway.

Cuddy was in her room, but not yet in bed, wandering around doing all those little jobs that women seemed to need to do before getting into bed. House stood back, against a wall, trying not to get in her way even though he knew she couldn't see him. She was still humming some stupid Christmas song as she rubbed lotion on her hands and arms, and then pulled down the covers and climbed into bed.

"I know what she's thinking," Amber said, her voice startling House who'd been getting used to the quiet of the bedroom.

"Yeah? You couldn't hang around for next week when I'm back at work could you? That'd be pretty handy to know the next time I have to negotiate with her over a patient."

Amber ignored him. "She's thinking about the fact that this is the fifth Christmas Eve in a row she's spent in bed alone."

House's sharp retort died on his lips as he looked over at Cuddy, staring at the ceiling, her eyes sad but resigned. As if she'd accepted that this was the way it was going to be. As if she wasn't the sexy, vivacious, powerful woman that he knew her to be, someone who had every right to a man in bed next to her and a brood of children down the hall.

"Why?" House asked quietly. It was a question he'd never thought to ask before.

"Because she thinks that the man she's in love with isn't in love with her."

House turned to Amber with a puzzled expression, but before he could speak, she put her hands on her hips and gave him a daggers stare. "House, if you _dare_ ask me 'Who's she in love with?' I will personally remove your testicles with a pair of blunt secateurs."

House snorted. "That's _not_ what I was going to ask." Although the question had occurred to him. _Really?_ he wanted to ask Amber. _Is she really in love with me?_ The next logical question of course was _Why?_, but with the intuition of dreams, House realised that was a question Amber couldn't – or wouldn't – answer.

Cuddy sat up and turned to her nightstand, opening the bottom drawer. From deep inside it, she pulled out a navy blue, drawstring satin bag.

"No," House said, turning to Amber. "You didn't bring me here to watch this." House was torn between his instinctive desire to watch what he thought was about to happen and a sudden – and quite unexpected – desire to protect Cuddy's privacy. From Amber, anyway.

To House's great relief, Cuddy reached into the bag and pulled out a journal and a beautiful, obviously expensive, fountain pen. In the corner Amber chuckled maliciously at House's incorrect assumption, and, after searching for, and failing to find, an appropriate put down, House simply ignored her. Instead, he walked over to the bed, settling himself on the bed next to Cuddy, leaning against the pillows. Her hair was spread next to him, her body in arm's reach.

"Will she feel it if I touch her?" House asked, hoping Amber would take the question as a simple matter of practicality and not some deep-seated desire. He was just concerned about the fact that he was so close to her.

"Not as such, no," Amber answered, matter-of-fact, leaning against the wall in the corner. "She might feel something. It depends on the touch. She might feel a nice, light shiver, or it could be a cold feeling of dread."

House didn't bother to ask what the difference in the touches was. He figured he could work that out and decided to try his best not to touch her at all – just in case.

Cuddy opened the journal, and House sat up higher on the bed, carefully inching closer to her warm body in order to have a better view. First she flicked through some previous pages. House wasn't surprised to note that every page had the date neatly and clearly printed at the top. From the dates it was clear that Cuddy didn't write in the journal particularly often, perhaps once a month or so. What did startle him was the frequency with which the name "House" appeared in the pages. But then, he figured, he probably was the staff member she had the most to do with – his cases often required her approval or her input. He doubted the head of the cardiology practice had to consult Cuddy before performing a triple bypass, or installing a pacemaker.

Cuddy turned to the first unmarked page and took the lid from her fountain pen, shaking it to get the ink running. On pressing it to the page to write the date, the pen let out a blotch of purple ink and she swore under her breath. House smiled, both at the unladylike swearing and the ink. _Purple prose indeed_.

Finally Cuddy had the pen working as she wanted and began writing.

_2008 – summed up? Loss. And hope._

Cuddy underlined the word "loss" vehemently and House looked from the journal to her eyes, surprised to find them glassy with tears.

_I thought as you got older you were supposed to add things to your life, not subtract them,_ she continued. _When I look back, my school days, college days, I had so many possibilities. It feels like each of those possibilities is slowly winking out as the years go by, just like those cheap Christmas lights I bought at WalMart. _

House was tempted to smile at the almost teenage angst of Cuddy's words, but the serious, sad expression on her face quickly extinguished his contempt.

_And yet, I might still have a chance – foster parenting, and then who knows? I don't know what I'll do if the same thing happens again – I can't go through it again._

Cuddy paused, the end of her pen slipping between her lips as she thought. After a minute or so she began writing again.

_I can't think about what else I might be losing by trying to be a mother again. But am I kidding myself? Was he ever mine to lose? _

Cuddy took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, blinking hard.

"House, that's what a woman looks like when she's trying not to cry," Amber said, bitchily from the corner. "Just in case you didn't know."

House sneered at her, unwilling to admit that she'd got him with that one. Admitting that he _did_ know would only prove how familiar he was with making women cry.

_I tried this year. I really tried_, Cuddy wrote. She took in a slow, shuddering breath, and obviously decided that writing in her journal was best left for another time. She slowly closed it shut, wrapped it and her purple-inked pen safely in their satin bag and then put it back in the drawer. She flopped back against the pillows, only to stare up at the ceiling again.

"House?" Amber called out softly.

House had been entranced by Cuddy's face, trying to work out what the words in her journal had meant. _Loss?_ Sure, House got that. The loss of Joy had been hard on her. And _hope_? The new kid might just be hers. But in gaining the baby, what was she scared of losing? _What was she wondering was 'hers'? _Surely she didn't mean—

"House," Amber said again, interrupting his thoughts. She spread her arms out wide. "I want you to meet someone. Well, two someones." From behind her, in the dark shadows of the room, two children emerged, faces House was sure he'd never seen before. They reminded him of nothing so much as the spectral images of starving children from somewhere deep in countries House didn't even want to think about, let alone name.

"Who are they?" he asked Amber.

"This is 'Ignorance'," Amber said, putting her hand on one child's head. "And this is 'Want'." She put an arm around the other child's shoulders.

"Great," House muttered. He felt awkward, but then he figured lying in Cuddy's bed next to her without her knowing she was there, while a dead former employee stood in the corner introducing little Starvin' Marvin waifs would probably make the sanest man a little unsettled. "You want me to make a donation to Save The Children when I wake up?" he said, covering his deep perturbation with a quip.

Amber rolled her eyes. "They are the greatest causes of suffering in this world."

"And what the hell am I supposed to do about the world?" House was getting annoyed again. He'd have given anything to be back in his own bed. Scratch that – he'd have given anything to be here in Cuddy's bed – with no Amber in the corner – and with the ability to touch her in a way that would produce a hell of a lot more than a shiver.

Before Amber could answer, Cuddy got up out of bed and headed down the corridor. Intrigued, House followed her. Cuddy went into the living room and turned on the lights of her Christmas tree and then checked that the curtains were open, making sure the lights could be seen from the street. She paused a moment, the blinking coloured lights flickering strange bolts of colour across her face. In the darkness she smiled, her face lit up from within.

"Why is she smiling?" House asked. Amber and the two waifs had followed them out into the living room.

"Because she's happy," Amber said, her voice full of scorn at his question.

"But she was just wrote that this has been a crappy year."

"Yeah, it hasn't been a great one for her. But tomorrow all her friends are coming to her house to celebrate Christmas. She's spent hours cooking and preparing a meal for them. She's decorated to make things look special. She was even part of the neighbourhood decoration efforts, which is why she's out of bed right now, making sure the lights are all on."

"So because of one day this year, one day out of three hundred and sixty-four other crappy days, she's happy? She's crazy."

One of the waifs spoke up. "So a life with only moments of happiness is not worthwhile? One must be happy all the time?"

"Good question, Ignorance," Amber asked. "What do you think, House?"

"Hmph," House grumped, unwilling to answer the question. "And what about you?" he said, nodding to the other waif, Want. "Or are you too weak from hunger to speak?"

Want nodded slowly, his head rocking back and forward, the movement becoming more and more extreme until he was some hideous caricature of a clown, his mouth open obscenely, head back, head forward, a blur of motion. A combination of fear and vertigo began making House feel nauseous as Want's head sped up until House felt sure his spine must surely snap. But then slowly, slowly, Want's head began to reduce speed – head back, head forward - his features slowly becoming visible again.

Head back.

Head forward.

Gradually Want's features became clear again and with a growing sense of horror House found himself looking into his own face, somehow grossly distorted, his head far too large and healthy for the skinny, malnourished body it sat above.

"What the fuck?" House muttered, his knees feeling weak.

"Ready to go home, House?" Amber asked, smirking.

A clock on Cuddy's mantelpiece began chiming, and House looked over at it. Midnight. _But wasn't it two am when he woke up? _His brain hurt from everything he'd been through that night. Cuddy turned away from the Christmas tree and began walking back towards her bedroom.

Amber and the waifs began to laugh at him.

"Cuddy!" House called out, without really knowing why. "Lisa!"

Then he was falling, looking up at the cackling faces of Amber, Ignorance and his own grotesque head on Want's body. Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

His head hit pillows, his body cushioned by an unexpected mattress. He had barely time to catch his breath before he was overcome.

Sleep.


	4. Stave IV: The third of the three spirits

**A/N:** Thank you so much to everyone who has left me lovely reviews. I'm sorry, but things are so crazy at this time of year I don't have time to reply personally to you as I would normally like to do. Please accept my thanks, I sincerely appreciate each and every one of you who take the time to leave a comment.

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**Stave IV: The last of the spirits**

"Shouldn't you be haunting Chase instead of me?" This time when House woke up he wasn't startled by finding someone standing beside his bed, he practically expected it. And in contrast to last time, to Amber's harsh words and the terrifying waifs, the bald little girl standing there beaming at him couldn't have been interpreted as threatening in any way.

At House's comment she giggled and blushed in a way that House might have been forced to concede was cute. "When was the last time you kissed someone?" she asked.

"I don't kiss nine year olds. Or however old you are. Uh, were," he corrected himself.

"When was the last time you kissed someone?" she repeated.

He remembered. He remembered exactly. Not that he was going to tell Andie about that. Instead, he used his usual sarcasm to cover his emotions.

"Isn't the lesson I'm supposed to be learning here about loving my fellow man? Or woman? And they send me a child? What would you know?" House scoffed.

This time the smile Andie gave him wasn't cute. It was wise, knowing, and full of pity. Suddenly House was jealous of this person, someone who'd spent only one-fifth the amount of time that he had on the earth, and yet seemed so much more comfortable in her own skin than he ever had. His automatic response was to scowl.

"Looks like Wilson was wrong. You didn't outlive me after all." House was satisfied to see her smile falter slightly at that.

"No, I didn't. And it was painful, right until the very end. The hardest thing was saying good bye to my mom." After a moment her expression brightened. "But I look over her, and she's better now. She's even starting to have happy moments, and that's so nice to see. I think she knows that I'm watching."

House didn't want to get into that. "So what, you're here to show me my future?" he sat up in the bed and folded his arms. "What's so bad about that? I already know what I'm going to see. My funeral. No one turns up because I'm a grumpy old bastard. Who cares? I'm dead anyway. I'm not going to worry that the funeral directors cheated me because I paid for silk lining in my coffin and they gave me polyester. It's not like it's gonna make me itch."

Andie smiled again, that beatific, saintly smile that House knew would be driving him up the wall very shortly.

"Come with me," she said, holding out her hand.

House had to admit, the best thing about all of this was that his leg didn't hurt at all while he was hallucinating. He made a mental note to try to remember this when he finally recovered to see if he could work out what it was that allowed him to have such vivid, pain-free experiences.

He reluctantly took Andie's hand, recalling Amber's terrifying flight and wondering what to expect this time.

"I am the ghost of Christmas yet to come," Andie said, the solemn words sounding odd coming from her girlish voice.

"Yeah, I kind of figured that. But I thought you weren't supposed to speak. You know, the silent spectre and all that."

"Nah, I talk. And I sing. I really like Christina Aguilera."

"Of course you do."

Andie began to hum under her breath as they moved out of House's apartment and through the city in that way that was kind of like flying and yet not. Andie was wearing a billowy white cotton summer dress, and it seemed like the folds of her skirt carried him along.

Eventually they slowed, coming to a halt in the corridors of Princeton Plainsboro, a hallway House was intimately familiar with. They eventually stopped immediately outside his office.

"Hey, what about my funeral?" House complained. He'd actually been kind of curious to see it. Would Wilson have come? Cuddy? Chase?

"Not yet, not this time," Andie said. "Look."

Andie's arm spread wide and suddenly the two of them were transported inside the glass walls of his office. They were standing in the conference room, to be exact, and he was there, looking fifteen, maybe twenty years older. Greyer, more hunched, hardly any hair left, but what was there was still sticking up all over the place. His cane was in his left hand now, and House knew with the certainty of dreams that it was because his right hand had become arthritic. The pain of grasping the cane had become worse than the pain he was trying to prevent by holding it in the first place. House unconsciously tightened and relaxed his fist in reflex, enjoying the freedom of freely-moving joints now, knowing that the time for that was limited.

There were three faces around the conference table that he didn't recognise – no doubt his new bunch of fellows. That meant that right now, in the present, these three were just children, perhaps on the cusp of puberty, about to launch into their pre-teen years. House suddenly felt ridiculously old.

They were running a differential and House cheered up slightly when he noted that although his body had suffered the ravages of time, his brain seemed as sharp and quick as it had always been. He threw out possibilities, crushed the ridiculous suggestions of the others, prompted new thinking and eventually sent them off with a list of diagnosis tasks. There had been some new terms, new diseases, even new medications mentioned in the discussion and House was a little disappointed because he knew he wouldn't remember them. _That would be a cool trick._ He could just imagine going in to work tomorrow and ordering a drug that hadn't been invented yet.

Once the young doctors had left, his older self made his way down the corridor and Andie beckoned House to follow. They walked around the corner to a large suite of offices and conference room – much like his own, only newer and larger – with "James Wilson M.D." clearly marked on the door. Wilson had obviously done well for himself.

His older self barged in, just as he always had, and slouched in a chair in front of Wilson's desk, waiting for Wilson to finish a phone call.

House noticed a photo on the desk: Wilson, a pretty blonde lady and two little girls. Again, with the clarity of dreams, knowledge came from nowhere. House knew that for Wilson it had been fourth-time lucky. His wife of fifteen years and their two daughters, Helena and Eva, were a model family.

"How're the girls?" older House asked Wilson when he finished the call.

"All good. I can't chat for long, Eva's in the holiday school play and I have to get home and help. Sophia made me promise to be home on time – Eva's the arch-angel and she can't manage Helena, Eva _and_ the wings."

House was intrigued by the smile on his own older face; he seemed to be genuinely pleased about Eva's angel role.

"Not to mention the whole religious confusion."

Wilson grinned. "You're not wrong. We're just skipping over that for now."

"Well, I'm sure she'll be a great angel."

Wilson beamed, the proudest father House had ever seen. "They're both angels."

"Not that you're biased at all."

"Not at all," Wilson happily lied. He gave the House sitting opposite him a gentle smile. "I'm sure the girls would be thrilled if their Uncle Greg was in the audience," he said, hinting.

"I don't think so."

"Come on, House. What are you going to do otherwise? Sit at home on your sofa?"

"That sofa and I have a very special relationship."

"It's the longest relationship you've ever had."

"It's faithful, comfortable and dependable. What more could I want?" Older House rose from the chair painfully, looking down as he did, as if he needed to give his legs encouragement to do his will. As his head was down, present-day House didn't miss the look that Wilson gave his friend – pitying, sad, sympathetic. He'd obviously learned his lesson though, because as soon as House was fully vertical, Wilson wiped the expression and gave him a neutral look.

"I don't know – conversation?" Wilson bantered back.

"Conversation's over-rated."

Wilson took in a deep breath, seeming to reach some kind of internal decision. "I heard from Cuddy," he said gently.

House knew himself well enough to recognise the expression on his face – older and more deeply lined as it was. It was his composed expression, the one he used when he was being careful to ensure that no one knew what he was thinking. Only now, seeing it from the outside, he wondered if it ever worked.

"Yeah? How's the old lady doing?"

Wilson gave a quick laugh. "Not too shabby for an _old lady_, House. Still in London. She's just been made the CEO of Princess Margaret Hospital and is, by all accounts, giving the NHS a real headache."

"Power-hungry wench," House muttered.

"She was talking about coming back to visit for Christmas – until the promotion came through."

"Oh." House's flat response gave Wilson nowhere to go.

"You know how much she loves the girls. And how Hope likes spending time with them too. It's almost like the three of them could be sisters. Or cousins."

"How old is Hope now?"

Wilson gave the older House a funny look, and House knew why – there was no way he'd forget something like that. Maybe his previous estimation of his senility had been overly generous.

"She's sixteen. And apparently giving her mother all the grief a teenage girl is supposed to."

"Cuddy deserves it. It's not like she was as pure as the driven snow."

"Actually that's what I said to her," Wilson said with a laugh. "Not those exact words, of course, but I reminded her of her wilder days. But then she was going on about this music Hope likes that's driving her insane—"

"House?" Andie broke into House's careful observation of the conversation.

"Yeah?" he asked without turning away from his older self and Wilson who continued to discuss modern music.

"Hope is playing music _you_ sent to her." She giggled, her cute little schoolgirl giggle. House was surprised to find it wasn't bothering him as much as he thought it would.

"I sent music to Cuddy's daughter that Cuddy hates? Cool."

"It's a secret," Andie said. "Hope's not allowed to tell her mother where it comes from. And she hasn't."

"Hope sounds like a cool chick."

"She is. She's so much like her mother you wouldn't believe."

"Her mother?" House asked, turning away from Wilson to look at Andie. "Which mother?"

"Cuddy, of course," Andie chided, as if he should have known. "She's just as wilful, strong-minded – and _beautiful_."

"So Cuddy's the CEO of a hospital in London and has a beautiful, headstrong daughter," House summarised. "Sounds like she's doing fine."

Andie frowned. "Have you even been listening?"

"Yes," House said, bristling. "Except for when you interrupted."

"Fine." Andie stuck her tongue out at him. "Listen."

House turned back to his older self and Wilson. They'd moved to the door while he'd been talking to Andie, Wilson had his briefcase in his hand, House had one hand on the doorhandle.

"Cuddy said the invitation's always there," Wilson said, biting his lip. For the first time, House noticed that his friend had begun to grey around the temples. He still seemed to have a full head of hair though, damn it.

"London's a long way away."

"It's not that far."

"You know I don't travel."

"You don't do anything except work and watch TV."

Both versions of House were stopped short by Wilson's impulsive reprimand.

Older House recovered first. "And it suits me just fine," he said carelessly, opening the door and stepping through it, clearly bringing the conversation to an end.

"Merry Christmas House," Wilson called to House's retreating back.

"Give Helena and Eva a kiss from Uncle Greg. Don't forget to tell them that angels don't really exist," he called over his shoulder.

"Yeah, I think I'll leave that part out," Wilson muttered, locking his office and heading home.

House spun to face Andie. "So? What? What does that mean?"

"Let me show you," Andie said gently. She put her hand on House's arm and the office and corridors around them were instantly replaced by House's own apartment. It was almost identical to the way House had seen it before going to bed, just a few hours ago. Some of the appliances were different and the TV – wow, if that was even what it was – looked astonishing. But basically very little had changed. Even his position on the sofa – yes still the very same sofa that Wilson had been making fun of – was the same. Surely the cushions had been worn thin with the pattern of his butt cheeks by now, House thought. But then House knew that if it was him, he'd simply have the cushions re-stuffed, and seeing as it _was_ him, he figured that's exactly what had happened.

The House on the sofa poured an amber-coloured liquid into a glass and took a long sip. House was relieved to find that his other self had poured a decent fifteen-year-old whisky and was glad that such a thing would still exist in the future. He decided not to think about the fact that somewhere in his present that very whisky was going into a cask in a dark room to sit and wait for this day, for him to open that bottle. The whole time travel thing made his brain ache if he thought about it too much.

"House?" Andie gave him a sad look, her eyes welled with tears.

"What's wrong?"

"You are." She took in a shaky breath. "You're wrong."

House sighed. "I am getting really sick of vague, mysterious portents from dead people."

"You're sick."

"Not the first time I've heard that."

"No really, you are. At this time, your sickness is just beginning. It's going to kill you. You're going to die."

House scoffed. "Well of course I'm going to die. We all are. And given that I must be – what? – sixty-six, sixty-seven here? – I'm not all that surprised. With what my body's been through, the Vicodin . . . " Actually, although his words were brave, House was surprised to find that his stomach clenched a little in facing the reality of what had hitherto been a reasonably abstract – if definitive – idea.

"You're not going to die just yet," Andie said, although her sadness hadn't abated. "By the time you do, you won't have seen Cuddy or Hope for five years. You won't have seen Wilson for three days, or his family for a month."

House shrugged.

A tear rolled down Andie's cheek and her voice was so quiet House had to lean in to hear her. "It'll be three days before anyone notices."

House swallowed hard. That was not what he'd expected her to say. His instant defence mechanism sprang into play. "Well, could be worse. I remember some guy in Chicago, his remains were _mummified_ before they—"

"House?" Andie interrupted, her breath now coming in quiet sobs.

House fell silent, staring at the child in front of him who seemed to be able to muster more emotion about his demise than he could manage himself. She threw her little body at him, hugging him, just as she had all those years ago when she'd left the hospital. Her hope then was just as futile as her hope now, House couldn't help thinking. Only this time, not quite against his will, House found his arm rising, encircling her, patting her back in a way that could almost, _almost_, be compassionate.

"Cuddy will cry," Andie said, her voice almost indistinct as she pressed her face into his shirt. He could feel her tears dampening it. "And Hope will cry."

House nodded. "Well, at least someone will."

"They will. They'll sit together and cry." Andie sniffed and pulled back, looking up at him with big, tear-filled eyes. "Cuddy will cry for what she lost, and Hope will cry for what she never had."

For some reason, whether Andie, the ghost of Christmas-yet-to-be, was capable of making such a thing happen, or whether it was just House's own vivid imagination, his mind's eye was filled with a vision of Cuddy and her teenage daughter clutching each other in grief. He tried hard to figure out what emotion it was that sprung up inside him in response to the image. He figured, rationally, that he should be glad he was missed. Surely that was a natural human desire. But interestingly, the more prominent feelings were guilt and sadness, that he'd hurt two people so dramatically with the simple act of _dying_. It wasn't what he expected at all.

Truth be told, the idea of lying on that sofa, or in his bed, for three days, dying, _dead_, before he was found, didn't sit particularly well with him. He knew what he'd look by then, what the state of his body would be. He knew it would be undignified, and no matter what kind of lectures he gave to patients about the dignity or otherwise of death, he didn't want his own to be like that. He wasn't exactly sure what he did want it to be like, but not that. Not . . . alone.

"It doesn't have to be," Andie whispered.

"I guess I could go to Cuddy's lunch tomorrow," House said casually, as if the idea had just occurred to him. "She did go to all that trouble to make fruit cake."

Andie smiled at him through her tears. Once again, House thought his eyes were deceiving him: he wasn't sure if the room was growing dim, or if it was just in contrast to Andie who seemed to be getting brighter. Her smile glowed at him, warming him, and she began to shrink, growing smaller and smaller, and brighter and brighter, until she was like a little doll and House could have reached out and held her in one hand.

"I know what it's like to kiss a boy," she whispered. Then, all that was left of her was a bright point, like a star, and when the light faded House found himself back in bed.


	5. Stave V: The end of it

**A/N:** Thanks again so much to everyone for your wonderful reviews -- I love you guys! Have a very Merry Christmas or happy holiday season, whatever you celebrate.

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**Stave V: The End Of It**

When House next woke up, weak sunlight was making its way through the gaps in the curtains. He could just see outside that it was going to be one of those bright, crisp days, the perfect kind of winter's day that inspired Christmas card illustrators. Interestingly, all the symptoms of his flu had disappeared. He was positive he hadn't been hallucinating his sore throat and painful sinuses, but that had all miraculously disappeared.

He knew, after everything that had happened the night before, that the disappearance of his flu _shouldn't_ be the only miracle to come out of the experience. But the weird thing was, he didn't feel any different. He was no re-born Scrooge, eager to run out of the house in his PJs, handing out money to passers-by and paying for an extra large turkey to be served at the homeless shelter. There would be no pay rises for his fellows, and Thirteen was still on call, just as he'd decreed.

And yet.

Something was different.

Something small.

Small, and bright, and pointed, and it hurt in an itchy kind of way, prickling him from the inside.

He got out of bed and made himself coffee and a bowl of Fruit Loops, his own little Christmas tradition. After eating his breakfast he sat down at the piano and played a few Christmas songs. His mother used to love it when he'd play carols for everyone to sing along to. Once he'd got old enough that his father's threats no longer worked, he stopped doing it. He was a bit rusty on a few of them, but he was surprised at how quickly they came back to him.

After playing for about an hour, he had a quick shower and dressed, putting on some clothes that had come back from the cleaners a few weeks ago, still pressed and hanging in their plastic cocoon. The shirt was ironed and he put on a tie, knowing that Wilson and Chase would be dressed up too.

There was no time to rush out and buy last minute Christmas presents for everyone. Besides, if he turned up with an armful of brightly wrapped gifts he'd be more likely to get certified than congratulated on his change of heart. All those presents would do would be to convince a room full of doctors he'd finally snapped the one last, slim thread that was holding him on the happy side of sanity.

Besides which, the good stores were all closed.

Cuddy didn't deserve a last-minute gas station gift. Or a cheap box of chocolates from a convenience store. But he wasn't about to run out and make the jewellers open up so he could buy her a solitaire either.

_Cuddy likes champagne_.

The idea whispered through his brain, the imprint of a breathy, elderly female voice left in its wake, along with the faint smell of lavender. This time it didn't give him goose bumps, instead he headed for the closet in the hallway and began rummaging around in the bottom. Eventually he found a crumpled gift bag and pulled a bottle from inside it. It had been given to him by a pharmaceutical rep the year before and as he wasn't the greatest fan of wine, he'd stored it away, mentally labelling it "for emergencies". He guessed this counted, although he had to admit, it wasn't quite the kind of emergency he'd pictured at the time.

The bottle had a white flower painted on it, the art nouveau style stem scrolling up one side. _Perrier Jouet, Belle Epoque Brut 1995_. He wasn't a connoisseur, but he thought that it was probably a good French champagne – besides, the rep it had come from had been trying to sell a very expensive drug and therefore he figured they'd have to be providing very expensive alcohol.

He didn't have any wrapping or ribbon or even a card, but he figured the fact that he was turning up _and_ bringing wine was probably going to be enough of a shock for Cuddy to deal with without adding further to her burden.

When Cuddy opened her door to his knock, she couldn't cover her surprise at seeing him.

"Oh, House!" She stepped back to let him in, one hand flying to her throat to twist the pearls there in a habitual nervous twitch. "I didn't think you were coming."

"Pleasant surprise, I hope?"

"Of course!" There was a slightly awkward moment as House leant in to give her a peck on the cheek. It felt like a kiss gone wrong, but House knew that every guest who turned up would at least give her a peck if not a hug, and he was determined to get things right. He didn't quite know what that meant yet, but being comfortable with greeting each other had to be a start.

"Is there enough food?"

Cuddy laughed. "There'd be enough even if you brought the neighbourhood with you."

She headed into the house, gesturing for him to follow. It was strange being in her home again so soon after he felt he'd just been there, and he was amazed at how clearly his memory had conjured the interiors during his delusion. House was growing more and more convinced that what he'd experienced the night before had been some kind of very vivid nightmare. Perhaps he'd had some kind of twenty-four hour bug, and the fever had activated some dormant creative spark he hadn't known he'd had. He _had_ been watching the Muppet Christmas Carol before he'd gone to bed after all, so the idea _was_ in his mind.

"Drink?" Cuddy asked as they reached the kitchen.

House looked around and realised that there were no other guests in sight.

"Am I the first one here?"

"Yes," Cuddy said, sounding a little nervous. "It's only midday and I told everyone one o'clock. It doesn't matter," she added hurriedly, "but you might have to put up with hanging out in the kitchen with me for a little while because I've still got a few last minute things to take care of."

House shrugged, starting to feel more and more uncomfortable. The tie felt like it was choking him and he could sense Cuddy's unease at him being in her home – at being alone together. And why shouldn't she feel on edge? It wasn't as if the last time they'd been here he'd kissed her and then walked out and then they'd played games, dancing around each other for weeks. Oh, wait . . .

As he shrugged off his jacket and scarf, he was reminded of the weight of the bottle. He laid his clothing over a chair and walked over to Cuddy.

"Here," he said, hating that he couldn't find anything more elegant to say.

"Oh!" Cuddy accepted the bottle and then her face lit up as she realised what she'd been handed. "House, you shouldn't have! You didn't have to—"

"It's a Christmas present," House said. "You can open it today or save it for another time when you've got something special to celebrate. Like when Hope comes home."

"Hope?" Cuddy frowned.

"Uh," House stuttered. _Had his brain really invented a name for Cuddy's foster child?_ And, actually, now that he thought about it, Andie hadn't been particularly specific about Hope's parentage. She'd just said that Cuddy was her mother. Which could mean, well, just about anything.

"I could have sworn I hadn't told anyone that, but yes, that's one of the names I was thinking for the baby. I couldn't call her Joy, of course. Not again."

"No, not again."

They looked at each other for a long while, and something passed between them. It was House who pulled away, turning to the table in the kitchen and grabbing a chair.

"You mentioned a drink?" he said, making himself comfortable.

"Sure," Cuddy said, bustling about the kitchen, slipping instantly into the perfect little hostess persona. "Would you like eggnog?"

"Ew," House said, screwing up his nose.

Cuddy chuckled. "No, I should have known that wasn't your thing. It's still early, so how about a coffee? I could slip a little brandy into it for that Christmas feeling."

"Sounds good."

Cuddy made them both coffees with brandy and put whipped cream and cinnamon on top.

"Is this what you have every morning?" House asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, right. As if my run wasn't hard enough." Cuddy rolled her eyes.

"You look in pretty good shape to me."

Cuddy didn't dignify what House had to admit was a pretty lousy line with a response.

"So what's with the whole Christmas thing anyway?" House asked, changing the subject. "Thinking of converting?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "No, it's just . . . " She sighed, obviously trying to find the words to explain herself. "I wanted to have everyone over for lunch, and most people are off work today. And then my neighbour asked me to be part of the decoration committee and every house in the street was having a Christmas tree in their window. I just thought I'd go along with it. The lights _are_ really pretty. And I put a menorah in the window as well."

"Oh, well that's okay then. I'm sure God's fine with that."

"House," Cuddy complained good naturedly, "can we leave religion out of this?"

"Hmm, _can we leave religion out of religion_? I wonder if that's the solution to peace in the Middle East?"

Cuddy sighed and House could tell her annoyance factor was ratcheting up a notch. She bent down at the oven and leaned in to baste a turkey that looked bigger than a small horse. There certainly was enough food to feed an army.

"You must have been up late last night cooking," House said, trying to be pleasant again, trying to reel in his baser instincts.

Cuddy closed the oven door and turned back to him, her face flushed. She smiled. "Yes, I was up til about midnight. I hope it will be worth it."

"It smells amazing," he admitted. House was pleased to see Cuddy flush further at his praise. Not that he'd been particularly effusive. Simply telling her that the food she'd cooked smelled good was enough to please her. It made him stop and think about their usual conversations.

"Well thanks. We'll just have to see if it tastes—" The doorbell rang, interrupting Cuddy's protests of modesty. "Oh, that'll be my neighbour. Excuse me for a minute."

Cuddy headed out to the front door and House heard her chatting enthusiastically with another woman.

"House?"

"Yeah?" He answered before he fully recognised the voice. Amber stepped into his line of view from somewhere near sink, completely destroying his theory about it all having been a nightmare. Either that or destroying his theory about it being a twenty-four hour bug. Maybe he was about to have a stroke after all.

"Don't fuck it up," Amber said bluntly.

House nodded. "I'll try."

Amber smiled. "You know, I could go all Yoda on your ass. '_Do or do not, there is no try_'. But for you, House, trying is good enough."

House swallowed hard.

Cuddy bustled back into the kitchen just as Amber faded back into shadow. He figured there was no point telling her that there'd just been a dead woman in her kitchen. It probably wouldn't lead anywhere good.

"Look! They made gingerbread! And the kids decorated them." Cuddy put down a plate of cookies in front of House with grotesque swirls of icing, mounds of M&Ms, and sprinkles in the kind of random patterns only children were capable of. To House they looked utterly appalling.

Cuddy pulled back the cling wrap covering the plate. "Want one?" she offered.

"God no," he said, recoiling in horror.

"Oh, okay." Cuddy was clearly disappointed. She re-covered the plate and put it away on a shelf and House cold feel the frostiness descend.

He'd just told Amber he'd try not to fuck it up. Seemed like he wasn't doing such a good job so far. He searched his brain for something to get them back on track, something that would make her blush again, something sincere.

"You wouldn't have any fruit cake would you?" he asked.

Cuddy gave him a coy smile. "Actually, I do. I baked it myself; I got a special recipe from a friend. Would you like to try some?"

House nodded. He watched her move about the kitchen and had to give himself credit for how rationally he was dealing with what had happened to him. So he had been – perhaps still was – hallucinating. So he'd already seen the tin that Cuddy pulled out from the cupboard he knew she'd go to, filled with fruit cake he'd already known she'd made. So what?

Cuddy lifted the cake from its brightly coloured container and even over the pervasive aroma of the roasting turkey, House could smell the brandy and sugar and fruit. He had the same reaction to it as he'd had last night, a gut-level reckoning of his past mingling with this moment in his present, and all it might mean for his future.

She cut two thick slices, laid them on a plate and put it down on the table. Taking a seat on an angle to him, she picked up her cup of coffee and held it up in salute.

"Cheers. Happy holidays."

House clinked his cup against hers. "Happy holidays."

He took a sip of coffee and then picked up the slice of cake, biting off a big chunk. He closed his eyes, in order to better savour the taste, humming under his breath with a simple, pure, heartfelt pleasure. He swallowed, the taste of brandy still strong in his mouth from the cake and the coffee.

Opening his eyes he saw Cuddy was watching him, her face suffused with joy, and he realised how much satisfaction she was getting from the simple act of feeding him and having him appreciate that food.

"Good cake, Cuddy," he said.

Out of the corner of his eye, House was distracted by a blinking light. He thought it might be some kind of kitchen appliance, but the light grew until the doll-sized Andie was once again hovering in his sight. She floated just behind Cuddy, sitting over her shoulder like some bald, cancer-ridden Tinkerbell. The little girl was jumping up and down with excitement. Her voice was mute, but her intentions were clear. She pointed frantically at Cuddy and made exaggerated kissing motions with her mouth.

"I'm glad you liked it," Cuddy said, looking down, her hands twisting in her lap, clearly uncomfortable with this version of House, in her kitchen, one who kept alternating between insulting and praising her. Insults she was used to, he figured. Praise? Not nearly so much. "I made it a couple of weeks ago and I've been—"

House cut off her words by leaning forward and pressing his mouth against hers. Cuddy was almost surprised enough to pull away, but after just a moment, she closed her eyes and her lips melded into his. She tasted of brandy and coffee and gingerbread and House could have sworn he could smell patchouli. Just their lips met, still tentative, gently exploring each other.

After a moment, Cuddy pulled away.

"House, I can't—" she began.

"I know," he said interrupting, anticipating her objection, knowing exactly what she was going to say. He paused a moment, waiting to see if he knew it because some ghostly female voice had whispered it to him but, no, this time he was sure these were his own thoughts. "I don't want to go through it all again either."

"The games?" Cuddy asked, her voice quiet, afraid. Her hands flew to her throat again in anxiety. House reached out and grabbed them, holding both her hands in one of his.

"No more games," he promised. Then he smiled, a wicked, happy grin, full of promise – full of what the future might yet hold. His heart laughed. "Merry Christmas, Cuddy."


End file.
